


Like Liquor

by Cutebutpsycho



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Attack of the Beyhive, Copious mentions of Beyonce, Fluff and Crack, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-05
Updated: 2014-11-05
Packaged: 2018-02-24 04:33:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2568323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cutebutpsycho/pseuds/Cutebutpsycho
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Graham held his hand to his chest in mock exasperation in an attempt to give Sherlock a safe out. “You don’t know who Jay-Z’s child is?”</p>
<p>Sherlock shook his head. “It’s not important,” he said. </p>
<p>Another gasp rippled through the audience. Jay-Z’s expression morphed from diplomatic interest to actual amusement as he watched the tableau.</p>
<p>Graham leaned forward. “Do you know who he is married to?”</p>
<p>“Should I?” Sherlock asked.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like Liquor

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dietplainlite](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dietplainlite/gifts).



> Once again, I thank GS Jenner, the beta of my dreams for quickly going over this and helping me through the ending (the first one really wasn't satisfactory). I also have to blame dietplainlite for giving me the idea. 
> 
> And to the Beyhive -- all of this is out of love. All hail the Queen Bee.

It’s not that Janine was mean, per se, but that Sherlock made it so easy for her to take the piss out of him. And sometimes when there’s low hanging fruit, one has to take a bite of it.

~*~

Molly stood next to John, watching the monitors backstage of the Graham Norton Show. Somehow they had cajoled Sherlock onto the show -- John couldn’t explain how that happened, given Sherlock’s normal recalcitrance to court the public.

Molly knew the truth, but she didn’t mention it to John. Jay-Z was a guest on the show along with Sherlock and she had begged him to agree to do the show because in her eyes, he was Mr. Beyonce Knowles-Carter, the man closest to the most perfect woman on earth and if she could meet Jay-Z and tell him that his wife was that amazing, it would make her entire life. Probably tied with actually shagging Sherlock, depending on whether or not Sherlock was irritating her when that question was asked.

But she didn’t quite tell Sherlock all of that. She just said he owed her a favor and needed to do this show and invite her along. Flashing him her boobs also helped him agree to the event.

Sometimes you have to play dirty to get what you want, she rationalized.

So far it had been a bit of a disappointment. Jay-Z had entered, surrounded by an army of people, then made his way to the interview, which didn’t allow Molly any time to talk with the rapper.

And the interview with Graham was not going well at all. While Graham was his usual manic-jovial-elfin self and Jay-Z was answering with a deceivingly sly wit that made everyone chuckle, Sherlock wasn’t playing nice, sitting sullenly on the couch and spitting out answers tersely.

It didn’t help that Graham had asked Sherlock to play a game of deductions, which Sherlock sometimes hated. Both Molly and John knew that he hated being dragged out in public and forced to display his talents like a performing seal at the zoo. But he did garner a laugh when he glanced over at Jay-Z.

“Your daughter is a toddler, as evidenced by the fact that the fabric on your shirt is stretched out and there’s a bit of a juice stain still left on your shirt by the chest pocket. She’s probably pulled on it to get your attention or in gripping onto it while you carry her around. No doubt you’re a doting father, given that when I saw you come on, you had a slight hunch to your walk as if you’ve spent much of your time stooping to pick up a small person. I also observed backstage that you have a floppy rabbit tucked in your jacket pocket, no doubt a present from her while you’re in London.”

To his credit, Jay-Z’s eyebrows shot up and down in a quick expression of surprise. “Nice,” he said. “What’s my daughter’s name?”

Sherlock shrugged. “I don’t know. I can only deduce what I see and I haven’t seen her name.”

A gasp went over the audience.

Graham held his hand to his chest in mock exasperation in an attempt to give Sherlock a safe out. “You don’t know who Jay-Z’s child is?”

Sherlock shook his head. “It’s not important,” he said.

Another gasp rippled through the audience. Jay-Z’s expression morphed from diplomatic interest to actual amusement as he watched the tableau.

Graham leaned forward. “Do you know who he is married to?”

“Should I?” Sherlock asked.

~*~

Molly closed her eyes and let out a small groan as she saw that. “Oh no,” she moaned, “No, no, no, no, no.”

~*~

In a cottage in Sussex Downs, Janine cackled as she watched the show. “Oh Sherlock,” she giggled. “I think this is a prime chance for a top up.”

~*~

“What are you worried about Molly?” John asked as he watched Molly start making panicking hand motions at the monitor. “So he doesn’t know who Beyonce is.”

“HE DOESN’T KNOW WHO BEYONCE IS,” Molly squeaked. “Do you realize that he’s made a complete tit of himself in public? How do you not know who Beyonce is?”

John shrugged. “He didn’t know the Earth revolved around the sun.”

“This is Beyonce! She’s even bigger than the sun right now!” Molly continued, more to herself than anyone else. “I play all those songs and he didn’t even notice. How did he not know?”

“So he gets teased a bit, so what?”

Molly grabbed John by the jacket lapels. “No,” she said firmly. “You don’t understand. He’s basically hit the Beyhive with a stick.”

John looked puzzled. “The Beyhive?” he asked slowly.

~*~

Janine cackled in delight as she read the Twitter feed during the show:

OMG SHERLOCK DOESN'T KNOW BEYONCE! HOW DOES THIS HAPPEN? #YONCEONHISMOUTHLIKELIQUOR

HOW DO YOU NOT KNOW THE GREATEST SINGER OF ALL TIME? IS HIS BRAIN FILLED WITH PUDDING? #Sherlocknotthesmartestofall

THE BOY NEEDS TO LEARN HOW TO BOW DOWN TO THE TRUE QUEEN.

DID YOU SEE HOW ARROGANT HE WAS? AS IF SHE WASN’T EVEN A THOUGHT IN HIS MIND. ELITIST TOFF PRICK.

HOW DO YOU NOT KNOW WHO BLUE IVY IS? SHE IS THE FUTURE QUEEN!

Janine sipped her wine, then began cackling as she typed the following on the computer:

I THINK THE BEYHIVE SHOULD EDUCATE HIM. HE CAN BE FOUND AT 221B BAKER STREET. HE NEEDS A COMPLETE EDUCATION. #FLASHMOBTIME

~*~

“For the last time Molly, I am not putting that leotard on and dancing,” Sherlock glared at her.

Ever since the Graham Norton interview aired, the tabloids had a field day with Sherlock’s admission. LOOK OUT FOR THE BEYGENCY SHERLOCK! a headline crowed, while commentators chattered on about how a genius could call himself a genius if he didn’t know who the top entertainer of all time was.

That was easy for Sherlock to ignore. After all, people who nattered on about those sort of things were idiots absorbed in trivial facts. What wasn’t easy was the way Molly followed him around the flat, warning him that her fans would consider this a slight and not be merciful. That morning apparently she wanted him to wear a leotard and do some sort of silly hand-waving dance talking about rings and such. It was nonsense and there were other things Sherlock wanted to experiment with. Such as the set of eyeballs she had brought home for him to do tests on.

Molly waved the leotard in his face, “You have to,” she said. “Do you realize what you’ve done with the Graham Norton show?”

Sherlock grabbed the leotard and threw it over his shoulder. “I spoke the truth,” he said, returning his attention to the experiment on the kitchen table. “I have no idea who this Beyonce nor this Beyhive is.”

“I play her music all the time,” Molly snapped, “How do you not know her?”

He shrugged. “Not important and who is this Beyhive?”

“Her fans,” Molly poked him in the chest. “You don’t understand the power they have. They shut down a television show because they dared to make fun of her daughter.”

“The one who has a stuffed rabbit and apparently is named after a color and a plant.”

“Yes, that one,” Molly sighed. “You thought Moriarty was bad? That Magnussen was dangerous? You have not meddled with the Beyhive.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes then returned to his work. “I am not afraid of a few fans of a pop singer,” he said dismissively. “It was said, now it’s done.”

Molly let out a frustrated screech. “I tried to help you Sherlock Holmes,” she said, pulling on her shoes and coat as she readied for work. “Just remember that. I. Tried. To. Help.”

Her words fell on deaf ears as Sherlock returned to his work. He wasn’t sure how long he had been in the middle of work when his ears detected the sound of people marching down the street -- _stomp, stomp, stomp, clap, stomp, stomp, stomp, clap_. He dismissed it, figuring it for a rally or some similar event.

He was in the middle of blowtorching an eyeball when the horns ripped through his calm, causing him to drop the eyeball on the ground and singe his dressing gown as he started in surprise and felt the wet squish of the eyeball under his foot.

“COME TAKE MY HAND, I WON’T LET YOU GO,” a group of voices battered his ears as he cursed, trying to find a towel to wipe off his foot. Stumbling to the window he covered his ears as he was hit with another blast of horns and people singing, “I WILL BE YOUR FRIEND, I WILL LOVE YOU SO DEEPLY!”

The volume was causing his teeth to shake as he approached the window, hopping and cursing, flapping at his dressing gown which was still smoking from the blowtorch. Grabbing the frame for balance he opened the window and stuck his head outside to take in the scene.

At least one hundred people were standing in front of Baker Street. Twenty were in a brass and percussion band and the rest were dancing and singing. For a moment, he admired the precision of the dancers, especially with how fast “I’ll be your own little star, let me shine in your world,” were being sung. Then he remembered that he had eyeball between his toes and had dragged it across the carpeting. Which he knew Mrs. Hudson wouldn’t appreciate.

“Sherlock!” he heard Mrs. Hudson yell from behind him and he jerked in surprise, slamming his head against the windowsill. He emitted a string of curses that resulted in a shocked gasp from his landlady.

Sherlock berated himself for not hearing her approach, but it could have been forgiven given that he had just gotten another blast of horn to the face. Gingerly pulling his head back in, he closed the window and turned to Mrs. Hudson, who was wringing her hands and looking startled.

“What on earth is going on?” she shrieked -- he could barely make her out over the ringing in his ears and the pain in his head from slamming into the window.

“I think we’ve been visited by the Beyhive,” he yelled.

~*~

Janine checked the UK Beyhive fan forum and cackled at the video that she saw of Sherlock, disheveled and head sticking out of the window, an annoyed expression on his face. The camera bounced, then jounced as he suddenly tried to pull his head back, then hit his head on the windowsill.

This top-off was going better than she anticipated.

~*~

Two days later, Sherlock was taking the Watsons’ young daughter out for a stroll. He was supposedly being nice and giving the couple time alone to -- do whatever they did, which he refused to contemplate too deeply because it wasn’t important at all.

Not to mention, going out with a small child was the best cover he ever had. No one suspected a man with a small girl at the park of following a suspected grifter who had stolen the crown jewels. Especially since he was wearing a baseball hat, a t-shirt with the Union Jack printed on it, jeans and trainers. The hat was pulled down low and his hair was slicked back to hide the curls.

Sitting on a park bench, watching as the young girl sucked on an ice lolly, Sherlock handed her a handkerchief to try and wipe some of the stickiness away. The child wiped her hands on it, then wrapped the lolly in it.

“Why did you do that?” he sighed.

“My hands were getting cold,” she replied. “This is warm.”

“You can’t suck on your ice lolly then,” he said.

She shrugged, put her mouth over the lolly and sucked through the handkerchief. “Can so,” she said, a triumphant grin on her face. She then stuck her tongue out. “Is it blue?” she asked.

Sherlock studied the grifter, who was meeting with her mark. “Yes,” he said, glancing at her. “Impressively blue.”

He returned his attention to the grifter, who was meeting with an older white man in a suit. Banker, Sherlock though idly to himself, _heart disease, probably a proxy for the actual buyer._ The two sat together, obviously discussing the transaction, given how little interest they were showing each other, despite sitting on the same bench.

There was a rhythmic pulsing in the background, but Sherlock shook off the distraction. His companion began humming along with the music and shimmying as she sucked on her treat. The blue had dribbled down her hands and shirt now. Mary would undoubtedly be annoyed, but as far as Sherlock could tell, children were created to add to laundry piles.

Then the cry shattered his peace:

“WHO RUN THE WORLD? GIRLS!”

He groaned. _Of all the times_ , he thought to himself, as forty women came stomping into sight to the sounds of Beyonce.

“This goes out to all my girls that’s in the club rocking the latest,” a speaker blared.

The grifter’s head shot up and she glanced around as she tucked the envelope of cash into her pocket. Sherlock grabbed his charge’s hand and they tried following the woman, but were blocked by the cadre of women stomping to the song.

And of course showing the Watson’s stubbornness, the girl had dug her heels in and refused to budge.

“I like this song,” she wailed as the ice lolly dribbled all over his handkerchief, the girl and the ground. “Can we stay and watch? Please?”

Sherlock sighed as he fruitlessly tried to find the grifter. “I suppose,” he said.

The girl tried to hand him back the handkerchief. He shook his head.

“Keep it,” he said.

The image of his goddaughter whipping around a wet handkerchief while singing and dancing along with the flashmob wasn’t even enough comfort for the loss of the grifter and the broker. But Mary found it hilarious. Mycroft less so. Sherlock was irritated that he owed his brother a favor now because he had to beg to use the CCTV to help him track his quarry.

The blue stains never came out of the handkerchief.

~*~

Normally they didn’t go out on dates. Molly wasn’t the type to go out to fancy restaurants or make a huge deal about going out with Sherlock. Most of the time an ideal night for her was walking around London with him, getting some takeaway and going back to Baker Street. The whole time Sherlock would be muttering observations into her ear about the people they were passing.

Today was different, Molly noted. For some reason Sherlock seemed a little more on edge than usual.

“Are you OK Sherlock?” she asked, peering at him.

His jaw was set and his eyes darted around the street. “Fine, fine,” he said. “Everything is fine.”

Molly snorted. “Is it the flashmobs?”

He shook his head, obviously fibbing. “Everything is fine,” he lied.

Molly rolled her eyes.

They stopped at a food stall and ordered. As they were standing, waiting for their meals, the sound of a guitar floated through the evening air. Recognizing the tune, Molly smiled to herself and hummed along.

_To the left, to the left,_ the voices floated through the air.

“To the left, to the left,” Molly sang under her breath.

Sherlock glanced over at her. “What was that?” he asked, paranoia tinging his voice.

“Just thought I heard a song I know,” she said.

He frowned. The guitar got louder.

“No,” he muttered, “No, no, no.” He accepted the food and grabbed her hand, pulling her down the street.

The guitar got louder, along the voices.

_Everything you own in a box to the left…._

Molly began laughing. “Oh my God,” she giggled. “Is this the Beyhive?”

In the closet, that’s my stuff, yes if I bought it baby, please don’t touch.

Sherlock gritted his teeth. “Yes,” he said, tugging on her sleeve as he ducked down an alley. “They’ve been relentless.” He led her down a bunch of winding alleys that eventually led them back to Baker Street. “I haven’t been able to concentrate for days.”

He dragged her upstairs, and slammed the door, letting out a sigh of relief. “I think we evaded --”

_Keep talking that mess that’s fine, but could you walk and talk at the same time?_

Sherlock slid to the floor, head in his hands, groaning in agony.

Molly took her container to the table and watched the flashmob from the window. “I have to say it’s kind of romantic,” she said, munching on some chicken tikka masala. “But they could’ve picked a better song to serenade us with such as Halo.”

~*~

“You can’t just kick me off of the crime scene,” Sherlock shouted at Lestrade. He shook off John’s hand on his shoulder, which was a bit too firm of a grip for his liking.

“We have to go,” John began.

“I have work -- “Sherlock snapped, whipping his attention at John. They had gotten a text from Lestrade earlier that evening and after two days of nothing but boredom to keep him company, Sherlock was chomping at the bit to examine a crime scene. Especially something as intriguing as this which had a beheading, rubber chicken and six gallons of tomato soup. That was definitely more interesting than the Beyonce’s Greatest Hits playlist that was running through his head thanks to the past week.

Lestrade shook his head. “I’m in charge mate, and your flashmob --” he cracked a crooked grin.

“They’re mucking up the crime scene,” Sally Donovan added, watching the group barely outside of the perimeter swiveling their hips and singing _A diva is a female version of a hustler, of a hustler, of a, of a hustler._ She spoke some harsh words into the walkie talkie and a group of constables started trying to move the group away from the crime scene.

“You’ve got to go Sherlock,” Lestrade growled, throwing his arm out and restraining Sherlock from entering the scene. “This is getting to be too much attention and mucking up everything. Good luck trying to interview witnesses with this mess.”

Sherlock waved at the police cars and the tape and the numerous officers at the scene. “You’ve already made this a hoopla that rivals Glastonbury. You’ve closed off the street, lit everything up like it was Guy Fawkes Bon Fire Night and have everyone here, a little flashmob --” Sherlock let out a groan of frustration as flashmob’s volume increased. “I’m sure you find this amusing,” Sherlock growled as glared at Lestrade. “You’re the one who called me.”

“No one knew you’d be bringing your own backup dance troupe,” Sally said, a grin playing on her lips as the group moved about 10 feet further back, but didn’t cease singing. “We can’t even concentrate on our work.”

“I can’t help it if you’re easily distracted --” Sherlock began, but quickly faltered when Lestrade cuffed him upside the head.

“Out,” he growled. “Come back in a few hours. We’ll keep the scene preserved, but between the press and your personal performance troupe and the rubberneckers, there’s too many opportunities for trouble.”

Sherlock spun around and stormed off the scene in frustration. John shrugged and followed.

Sally and Lestrade watched at the Sherlock cut his way through the wall of dancers, causing some to scatter, while John followed behind, apologizing for his friend’s rudeness.

“How long do you think they’re going to continue this for?” Lestrade asked as they watched the mob turn around and follow Sherlock. The gathering had also attracted the press, who decided to glom onto that, leaving behind a bit of peace at the crime scene.

Sally glanced at Lestrade. “I’m not sure,” she said. “The Beyhive is relentless at times.”

“You think that we can ask them to continue if they keep the press off our backs?” Lestrade asked.

Sally’s grin returned as she began singing,“Uh oh, uh oh, uh oh, oh no no,” which continued until Lestrade’s barking laughter drowned her out.

~*~

It had been a quiet evening in the morgue. Molly was finishing up a stack of reports and tidying up as she got ready to leave and hopefully have a peaceful evening at home. Sherlock texted earlier that he was going to investigate a crime scene with Lestrade and it had looked promising, “At least an six,” he texted.

Then there was silence. Which was shattered when Sherlock burst into her office pacing and twitching like a hypercaffeinated toddler. Molly sat back in her seat and remained calm. While it was tempting to leap up and comfort him, Molly knew better. When agitated like this, she preferred to give him time to gather his thoughts and begin speaking.

“The Beyhive ---” he began, sputtering.

Molly nodded.

“They’ve gone too far!” he paced around.

Molly nodded. “What happened?” she asked, motioning for him to sit.

Sherlock shook his head, rejecting her offer. He paced around, once, twice, three times. He threw his hands up in the air in frustration. “Lestrade --” he started.

“I know,” Molly said. “Sally texted me a warning. It was beyond the pale what they did.”

The wind finally out of his sails, Sherlock collapsed into the chair and sighed. “What do I have to do?” he said, looking into Molly’s eyes. “What did I do wrong?”

Molly put her folders away and leaned forward, resting her elbows on her desk. “They’re rabid fans Sherlock,” she explained. “They’re tenacious and very protective over Beyonce.”

“I don’t care about motive,” Sherlock crossed one leg over the other and affected the air of someone disinterested. “I just want it to stop. How do I do this?”

“Why are you asking me?” Molly asked.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Because you’re the biggest fan of Beyonce that I know of. You know how to get into a fan’s mind. What would make them happy?”

Molly bit her lip as she tried to will the grin away. “The great Sherlock Holmes needs my help?”

His expression softened. Rising from the chair, he moved over to her behind the desk. Sitting on the desk, his sighed. “Yes,” he said. “I need you.”

Molly took his hand and ran her fingers over his knuckles as she thought it over. A smile crept over her face.

“I’m willing to do anything, but I’m not wearing that leotard,” his voice cut through her thoughts.

“Darn.”

~*~

Later that night, a Vine was uploaded.

One hour later, the Vine appeared on Beyonce’s Instagram without comment.

Instantaneously the video was tweeted, re-tweeted, blogged, re-blogged and spread around the Internet. The Vine was splashed everywhere on the gossip websites, passed around on social media and gossiped about on the chat shows as they dissected the meaning of Beyonce’s decision to repost the video to her millions of followers.

Six seconds of Sherlock in a tight close-up, dark curls tousled, top button of shirt unbuttoned and exposing the fine muscles in his throat. His intense blue eyes burned into the camera as his voice -- pitched to a panty-dropping range (Molly’s words, not his) -- sang:

_I've been drinking, I've been drinking,_

_I get filthy when that liquor get into me,_

_I've been thinking, I've been thinking_

_Why can't I keep my fingers off it, baby?_

_I want you, na na_

As quickly as he started, he stopped singing, lips quirking up into a smirk before his hand reached off-camera, pressed a button and the video went to black.

 


End file.
